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A stranger arrives for Session 9. She has been waiting for another kind of invitation. As their meanings begin to overlap, curiosity becomes a dangerous thing.
‘Gliberty glop,’ he said, looking at her face peeking out from behind the front door; his tone was eager without being jumpy. ‘I’m here for Session 9.’
She’d cracked the door just wide enough to stick her head out, which, judging by his appearance, was quite enough, and possibly even too much. Out of habit as much as hope, she’d checked her hair and lipstick in the hall mirror. But her expectations, already tentative, were fading quickly. What was that? An outfit? A costume? Too much leather and tie-dye for her taste. And no one needed that many rings and necklaces.
She gripped the inside bolt.
Still, there was something delicate, almost childlike, in the way he stood, holding his backpack by its straps so it rested on the gravel path. She wasn’t not curious.
‘Gliberty what?’ she said.
He dropped the straps and straightened up. ‘Gliberty glop …’ He hesitated. ‘Isn’t that … is this right?’ His right hand was raised in a gesture – face height, thumb and forefinger in the shape of an L.
She opened the door fractionally wider. He seemed young – seventeen, maybe eighteen – though the fading light and the fact he was backlit by a streetlamp made it hard to tell. ‘Is what right?’
‘This,’ he said, nodding at his hand. ‘From the email.’
She shook her head.
‘The one from yesterday. From the Secretary.’
She peered at his furrowed brow and clenched jaw, searching in vain for the joke or sales pitch. It’d been three weeks – calling out I’ll get it to Edward every time the door rang; endeavouring to answer in fine cashmere, lipstick, plain but elegant jewellery. She’d been waiting for years, so another few weeks was surely nothing. But actually, time had slowed to a dribble, and she’d found herself loitering in the hallway, hoping.
However, so far, the only callers had been salesmen. Young men flogging broadband or a new water supplier, usually with a peculiar and highly personal story about how the broadband or water had changed their life.
These men had all worn suits, which this person absolutely wasn’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He glanced back at the pavement, giving her the opportunity to see if the neighbours were in their living rooms or even out in their front gardens. It was evening, and she was surprised that no one was walking their dog or escorting a bottle of wine to someone else’s house for dinner.
Turning back, he said, ‘Are you in…?’
She sighed. Her legs ached and her ankles were swollen from walking Bonny that morning – the entire way round the reservoir and back.
‘Sorry, I mean, do you want … would you like …’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m in the right place, at least.’
‘My dear, only you know that.’
‘This is a test, though, isn’t it?’ he said, his face stretched, like he was facing a heavy wind.
She thought about the pot of tea she’d just prepared; the milk was already out of the fridge and she’d arranged her preferred cup and saucer on the counter, ready for when she returned. He was confused and out of his depth; not the liaison she would’ve chosen. And yet, in a garbled way, he was also making the right sort of noises; the only caller to even vaguely fit the instructions.
Instructions, in all honesty, that hadn’t been very helpful. A short email explaining that membership required a roleplaying exercise; a trial, basically – to see if she had the chops for it. It was vague, she thought, though probably fair; if the group was going to admit her – with all the risk and exposure that implied – it made sense they’d want to suss her out first. She’d assumed that part of her life was over, that Maidenhead wasn’t compatible with that sort of pleasure. So even a slim chance of being wrong was something she had to take seriously.
‘What happens,’ she asked with a thin smile, ‘if this is whatever you say it is?’
He paused. ‘Well, we chat for a bit. And if all goes well, eventually, we’re supposed to go to Bennie’s. Bennie’s place.’
‘And who’s that?’
He smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to find out?’
She liked the way he was looking at her now – it’d been a long time since anyone had looked at her like that.
‘Maybe,’ she said, her hand still pressed firmly against the heavy door; a precaution until she was certain it was him. She gazed at the puddles on the pavement behind him, shallow and still in the quiet air, occasionally picking up the street lamp, giving the appearance of a tunnel burrowed deep underground.
In the dim light, he thrust out his chest and stepped forward. He seemed suddenly denser, possessing greater clarity. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked. ‘To see what you’re really about. After all, it’s a pretty big house.’
A prickly sensation shot through her chest into her throat; his expression had lost every shred of apprehension.
‘You know, I’m here to see if you’re up to it. We’re selective, and we like people of a certain … calibre.’
That’s it, she thought; word for word what the email had promised: We’ll send someone round to assess if you’re up to it.
In a sense, she’d had time enough to imagine how it might go; she’d even rehearsed a couple of lines, sayable in different registers. However, with so little to go on – from Ruth, or in the correspondence – serious preparation had been out of the question. Still, she certainly hadn’t planned to invite a stranger into her house; a resolution she intended to honour, at least until the rules had been properly explained to her.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said, manoeuvring her body so it filled the space between the door and the wall.
‘Don’t worry, lots of members are the same. Flush. Deep pockets. You’re not alone in this big old house, are you?’
She wanted desperately to itch her throat, which by now was stiff and hot. Narrowing the opening, she tried to reappraise him. His face and clothes, how he was standing. He certainly no longer seemed boyish. Stupid old woman, she thought; only a fool gets excited for something they still know nothing about.
Unless, of course, this was the roleplay? Whatever he was doing, it certainly felt like a test. Of her patience, at the very least, but also, maybe, something else entirely.
A light wind rustled the trees. Neither spoke.
It surprised her how easily she could conjure her late father’s soft, gravelly voice: Never give quarter to impudence, dear. For impudence will bite off your hand. She’d led her life by that principle; asking for respect and giving it in turn. And frankly, she saw no reason to start making exceptions, especially not for this badly-dressed man, stood on the wrong side of a door that she had her foot securely wedged behind.
‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business,’ she said, firmly gripping the doorhandle. He smirked then looked away. ‘But for what it’s worth, my husband, he’s upstairs. Fixing – no, putting up – putting up some shelves.’
At that point, it crossed her mind to slam the door and be done with it. There’d surely be other people, if not in Maidenhead, then nearby – maybe in Bray or Windsor. She could ask Ruth to search them out for her. And next time, just maybe, Ruth would fix her up with someone who dressed a little less strangely.
Ruth knew that, back when they’d lived in Hammersmith, she’d found herself on the fringes of a similar crowd. Though never invited to join, her neighbours, who were members, had nevertheless confided in her; told her about their anxieties before hosting and the tiredness afterwards; she’d even, from time to time, caught a glimpse of the hazy purple marks that sometimes showed up on their wrists. As an outsider, she was there to remind them how exotic they were. But they’d also become her companions; some she’d even counted as friends, or thereabouts; walking their dogs together along Brook Green, faces flush with stories of the night before.
It upset her that none of them had stayed in touch when Edward was asked to run the new office. That was what years of hard work and loyalty got you; a one-way trip to Maidenhead. Though, at the time, it hadn’t sounded so bad, the way people disappeared, you’d think it was the other side of the world.
She appreciated people who made a commitment, or anyone, these days, who seemed like they might.
He bowed his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘Fresh paint?’
‘No,’ she answered without thinking. Then, truthfully: ‘Well, yes, actually. A few days ago.’
‘I can smell it,’ he said, looking at the newly-painted porch.
When she leant out the doorway, the smell was faint, if it was evident at all. Unmistakeable, though, was the way his eyes narrowed when he noticed her pearl necklace escape her collar and settle on top of her jumper. Either that or he was very surprised at her sudden movement.
After checking his watch, he started tapping his legs without discernible rhythm. Letting them rest, he then blurted out, ‘Session 9 is Hippy Space. That’s the theme. That’s why I said, Gliberty.’
Looking down at his scuffed shoes flecked with mud, she found it hard to believe, and was increasingly irritated, that their charade didn’t seem to be drawing to a close. His changeable manner still had her guessing, and with no reliable footholds, she felt like she had limited, dwindling, options.
Flinging the door open, she stood awkwardly in front of him. She was wearing a brushed pink jumper over white shirt, pleated beige skirt down to her ankles, stopping just above a pair of tidy black loafers. ‘See here,’ she said, crossly. ‘Do I bloody look like I signed up for Hippy Space?’
Without time to formulate clear expectations, she was pleased to find his shoulders bunching in meek surrender, shuffling nervously on the spot. He looked torn, adrift, as though whatever thoughts and ideas emerged in his head, they were immediately faced down by louder, sceptical voices.
The effect on her was quite the opposite. She grew tall and solid; her intentions crystallised. From her perch in the doorway, the gravel path appeared suddenly distant, almost foreign.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘But the community does different themes. Not just Space. We’ve done Westerns. A night on the Titanic.’
‘The community,’ she said calmly – her heart was thumping approvingly, but she suppressed the urge to do or say something more excitable –‘is that what you call it?’
‘I guess,’ he said. ‘Spread across different chapters, obviously. The nearest ones are in Reading and Slough. But they’re all over, apparently. It’s all in the literature.’
When she laughed, he looked up, eagerly. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
She stared at him pointedly, tying his face into a frown; though he must’ve done this many times before, he probably wasn’t used to the tables being turned on him so comprehensively. She stifled a smile. If they were looking for someone with gumption, deft in conversational jiu jitsu, she’d given them quite the performance.
‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘it’s mostly RPGs. Lots of group activities. That sort of thing.’
She tutted loudly. ‘Why do young people insist on speaking in riddles?’
‘No, sorry. Role Playing Games. Playing a character. With a group. Boardgames, maybe. Though some people just like to watch.’
Only the last thing he said made much of an impression, but it was enough to unsteady her, to take the air right out of her lungs. ‘Watching?’ she said. ‘Some people come to watch?’
He paused and looked at the sky, like he was weighing his next move carefully. ‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘At the afters mainly. Once the main story’s done with. Not always, but sometimes. It depends who shows up.’
A warm tremor pulsed down her spine, causing her to relax and smile. That was more like it, she thought – what she’d been hoping for.
Watching was more than enough.
‘Didn’t they tell you all this?’ he said.
She’d been given very little to go on by Ruth. Her friend had asked around, and said she’d found something that might be like Hammersmith. She’d heard it described as a large group with meetings all over; mainly character stuff, possibly a little “nerdy”. ‘You’ll have to ask them yourself,’ Ruth had said, handing over an email address, scrawled on a folded scrap of paper. ‘It’s all a bit cloak and dagger.’
The light had grown faint and his face was cast in deeper shadow.
‘Are there rules?’ she asked. ‘Rules that you follow.’
In the dark his crumpled bag, lying on the ground next to him, resembled a quiet and well-behaved cat. He nodded several times.
‘And a leader? Someone who makes the rules.’
‘That’s Bennie,’ he said. ‘Even if he’s not at the event himself, he sends instructions.’
It wouldn’t be exactly like Hammersmith, she thought. For one thing, they were too far away – in Berkshire, for heaven’s sake. Look at his clothes, his appearance; a different culture, to say the least. Then again, perhaps they were loosely affiliated – like he’d said about the chapters. It wasn’t outlandish. After all, desire was universal. And some desire needed witnesses.
She couldn’t be the only one whose husband worked all day, and preferred to unwind alone in his study.
For years, the only thing allowed on Edward’s lap was Bonny.
She closed her eyes and rotated her neck around her shoulders. On the other hand, there couldn’t be that many out there – these groups or gatherings or whatever they were. If there were, more people would know about them; they wouldn’t be so mysterious, and she wouldn’t have needed Ruth to get a hold of one.
He leant on the porch and started to pick at his fingernails. At that angle, he could probably see past her into the house; the hallway with the gold-framed mirror and the painting of the dogs resting in a grove after a hunt – though from where he was standing the content of the painting was probably unclear.
‘I actually think you might like it,’ he said. His arms were folded and his voice had changed – cut through with a jaunty, slightly impersonal optimism, like an advert voiceover.
She turned back to the house as if checking for something, which she wasn’t, but wanted to give the impression that surveillance was being broken. Stepping forward onto the porch, she drew the door almost closed behind her. The air was light and the street was heavy with quiet. She felt a little dizzy.
‘Out of interest,’ she said; ‘I mean, purely hypothetically – at these parties, is everyone dressed up?’
He touched his forehead with his hand as if checking his temperature; he seemed untroubled by what he discovered. ‘It’s a loose requirement,’ he said slowly. ‘But it’s the commitment that matters really. Being in a different headspace. You know, like escapism.’
Quite right, she thought. ‘So, what do I need?’
‘You don’t need anything.’ He sucked in his cheeks then forced a smile. ‘Except, obviously, you need to want it.’
She tried, with no little effort, to ignore the sharpness in his voice. ‘Could I be different, then?’ she said, lacing her fingers together against her chest, as if in prayer. ‘At these parties, I mean.’
He nodded; that was sort of the point.
She nodded as well, because wasn’t it already different? To be this close; on the verge of actually being there.
‘But first you’ve got to get there,’ he said, as if somehow able to peer into her thoughts. He leant up from the porch and tilted his head to one side; it looked like he was checking the house was still there behind her. She was struck by his tallness; she didn’t remember him being that size. ‘So, do you want to?’
She smiled: ‘So you are recruiting?’
His mouth twitched at the edges, though she couldn’t tell if it was on purpose.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, plucking at the fabric on her jumper sleeve, though she was already planning what she might wear – the black dress from Selfridges, the gold pendant from her mother.
‘No,’ he said, firmly, ‘now – going to Bennie’s. Are you coming or not?’
Again, she found herself thrown by his shifting, unreadable manner; her thoughts sluggish, unable to take precise or useable form. She hadn’t eaten dinner, despite the doctor telling her and Edward last week about how important it was to maintain healthy blood sugar levels. And what about Bonny – she couldn’t just leave her?
‘My husband,’ she said in the end. ‘Do I need to bring him? He’s actually … he’s out just now.’
He looked up sharply, something in his face having changed or come into focus. He began to speak, but she interrupted: ‘Or perhaps I could come alone?’
He stared at her, perfectly still, his body apparently caught in a moment of heightened anticipation. ‘You don’t have to bring anyone.’
She heard a car pulling out of a gravel driveway down the street. He must’ve heard it too because his head whipped round in apparent alarm. Turning back, he cocked his head playfully to one side and with a crooked grin said, ‘Except, there is a joining fee.’
For a moment, she was distracted by the airiness in his voice. Breathy, almost hoarse. It reminded her of Edward’s voice when he was lying or being evasive, like when he’d promised she’d find a suitable book club in Maidenhead, or that he’d take her out and introduce her to his colleagues’ wives.
‘I should’ve said,’ he continued. ‘A small sum only, but necessary.’
She felt her stomach do a small, neat somersault. In Hammersmith, they’d often whispered about the slow thrill of exposure, the trust they had to place in others. It was shared and delicate, and something, she was sure, that money would burn through.
She tried to interject, but words had started tumbling out of him. ‘Just something for logistics. Venues and stuff. Also, sometimes the games cost a little as well. Not much. But initiations, props, drinks; they aren’t cheap. I mean, they are. But they’re not free. Just bring your wallet and we’ll see how we go.’
It’d started to rain – her shoes and skirt were lightly marked – and for the second time she felt a strong and sudden urge to step inside and shut the door; to find Bonny and her slippers and settle down on the sofa. Her eyes began darting between him and the empty, puddled street. Her plan for the evening was still tantalisingly intact. She’d made no firm commitments, and now, out of nowhere, the ground was shaking with unwanted possibility. She needed to make her excuses. To get back to the routine she followed whenever Edward was away; ordering Thai food and watching a quiz show her husband disapproved of.
It wouldn’t be hard to forget all about it.
Cutting in politely, she thanked him and said it was about time she ‘checked on dinner.’
He shook his head; in fact, his whole body appeared to be trembling. ‘No,’ he said, several times, though his voice was soft, she barely heard him.
‘Sorry, I must.’ She clasped her elbows tightly. ‘It’s important. Thank you for everything. I’ll certainly think it over.’
He clenched his eyes shut and bunched his hands into little fists. She was surprised by how small and crumpled they appeared, as though pressure had caused them to fold in on themselves, like scrunched up bits of paper. ‘No!’ he said again, only this time he shouted it.
She dug her fingernails into her arms.
He was still now, breathing slowly through his nose. In a tone of false solicitousness, he looked up and said; ‘It’s cash only. We’re a cash-in-hand kind of business.’
‘Business?’
‘Club, sorry. We’re a cash-in-hand club.’ His jaw tightened, drawing his eyes into concentrated points. ‘This one time, a man came with his AmEx. We dug the enthusiasm. And the resources. But –’
‘I’m not giving you any money,’ she said. Though nor, apparently, was she able to move her legs. ‘I just thought –’
He clapped his hands loudly, a noise so abrasive it felt like he’d hit her. ‘Whatever, lady, are you coming or not?’
Her legs, though heavy, began to tremble.
When he stepped onto the porch, she noticed a shaving cut on his chin; his smooth face was an hour or so away from a five o’clock shadow. His voice was hot and raspy. ‘Enough of the bellyaching. I sort of don’t give a fuck. If you want in, this is what it takes.’
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.
He placed his hand on the doorframe; she could smell his fruity aftershave. ‘Look,’ he said, straining for calmness, ‘I just want to talk. Let me explain. It’s not only about the money.’
Finally, she stepped back into the hallway, in line with the painting. The dogs in repose, sun streaming in through the trees. ‘Edward,’ she called out, ‘is that you?’
He smiled and followed her in. ‘Oh yeah? Where are those shelves?’
It felt like her mind was trying to assume a new shape, to do various things at the same time. She looked at the painting, searching for gentle stillness. Was there a … special word? A safe word. Anything in the email?
She wondered if she could make it to the garden. Her breathing was shallow and hard to control; a strange exhaustion washed over her.
He drew closer, filling space. His eyes were fixed on her necklace.
